


Our Acquaintance Badly Met

by paeanrela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paeanrela/pseuds/paeanrela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU.  Whereupon Mister Stilinski and Lord Hale are not immediately fond of one another following the first time they meet.  They are not terribly fond the second or the third time either.  </p>
<p>Gradually, things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Acquaintance Badly Met

The young Mister Stilinski meets Lord Derek Hale at a social affair, one with lovely ladies decked in silk and brocade, with pleasant music and suitably decent refreshments.

“Please call me Stiles,” Mister Stilinski says, a clever smile slipping over his lips like minnows skimming the surface of a pond, flashing their silver fins before vanishing beneath the water.

Lord Hale makes no reply, instead raises imperious brows and looks him over like he is something foreign, but not very interesting. 

They are not friends.

*

They do not seek each other out at the various occasions they are both in attendance and that is an easy avoidance; a fair number of people are as eager to make the acquaintance with the solemn Hale heir as they are happy to ignore Mister Stiles Stilinski entirely. 

Mister Stilinski is the son of a widowed Naval Captain, who, while well respected and decorated for his valorous service, lacks the noble title granted by birthright that his wife had, the third daughter of a Viscount and now sadly deceased.

Lord Hale, by comparison, is the son of an affluent Duke, who was set to inherit his title and fortune upon his timely death which had become instead rather untimely following the tragic demise of himself, his beloved lady wife, and several other extended family members of varying title and consequence in a fire that lit the night sky purple and orange. 

They have very little reason to mingle in the same circles and yet Stiles, as he likes to be called, finds himself thrust into situations through the influence of his mother's kindly family, eager to see him making some connections of merit and carry on the memory of their dear sister through the resemblance he bares, in looks and manner both. 

Sometimes, at these shared social occasions, Stiles feels the prickling shiver of being watched and when he turns himself all around, trying to seek out the cause, he sees Lord Hale, locked in disinterested conversation with some desperate individual struggling to keep his attention. 

Sometimes Stiles watches Lord Hale and counts the seconds it takes the other man to look up and scan the room with lovely green eyes, until they reach him and Stiles carelessly looks away.

It is something of a game they play.

*

Once, they had been seated directly across from each other at some dinner affair, a mistake on the part of the host, and when asked if he would prefer to move further up the table as his title dictated the brooding Lord Hale refused and declared himself quite content. 

Stiles fancied Lord Hale must have a peculiar definition of contentment if that was the sort of expression he wore when experiencing the state and smiled cheerfully across the table, raising his glass to the man who leveled him with a look and an arched brow. Stiles laughed and the look of indifference shifted to one of annoyance. Stiles only laughed all the more. 

Later, when he was taking his leave, he felt that familiar prickling shiver and he turned all around, seeking out his audience. When he found Lord Hale they locked eyes directly and Stiles was not able to look away until Lord Hale did so first. 

He mused privately, on his trip home, that that might have been the first time he had ever seen Lord Hale smile, a small tight thing of private amusement, barely one by anyone's definition. 

The image stays with him, burned into his memory. 

*

“You look bored,” comes the observation from behind him and Stiles cannot help himself when he startles, nearly spilling his drink. When he spins around and finds Lord Hale watching him intently, Stiles can only frown. 

“And you look personally offended, did someone tell you that you frown too often?” he replies, bright eyes darting over Lord Hale's knit brows, the tight line of his mouth, smirking at the unimpressed look in his eyes. 

If possible the frown increases in negative emotive strength and Stiles grins, no longer bored with the boring party and the boring people.

“Come now, Lord Hale, if you make that face for too long it will stick and oh, won't the ladies weep for the loss of such good looks then,” he teases, his tone light and only skirting the edge of cruelty.

Because everyone knows Lord Hale's bad attitude is only tolerated because of his rank and handsome face.

If possible, Lord Hale's scowl deepens and he looks as if he might storm away. 

Instead he reaches up and plucks a bit of lint from the shoulder of Stiles' coat, flicking it away and leaning in so that Stiles can feel the warm puff of his breath against his neck.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Derek.”

Stiles excuses himself shortly thereafter and spends the next half hour in the quiet of the garden, trying to gather his wits. 

Much later, when he has washed his face and tucked himself into his bed he lays in the dark and stares unseeing at the ceiling. He thinks of Lord Hale, _Derek_ , and remembers the secret green of his eyes, the heat of his breath, the broadness of his shoulders. He hesitates and then slips his hand under the heavy warmth of his blankets, frees his cock from the loose confines of his sleep pants and brings himself off thinking of Derek's mouth, his hands, the imagined heavy weight of his body over his. 

He falls asleep feeling guilty, but his dreams are peaceful. 

*

Stiles doesn't remember what he'd said, he only knows that it's made Lord Hale angry and he's being pushed into an empty little alcove, shoved up against the wall with Lord Hale's hands tight around his lapels.

“You know so little about me, why must you continuously make offensive comments upon my character!” 

Stiles can hear the background hum of chatter of people down the hall and out of sight, Derek's words are hissed too softly to draw any unwelcome attention. Stiles muses that this must be how he is going to die. 

He can feel his heart pounding, licks his lips and stares at Derek with wide, drops his gaze to his mouth and lingers.

Derek's attention narrows, and Stiles can feel him relax against him, a strange shift of intent, before he releases him entirely, and steps back. Stiles fumbles to smooth out his sleeves, straightening his jacket. 

“If it happens again-” Derek says lowly, “-trust me when I say I'll make you regret it.”

Stiles quells his panic, stares at Derek silently before he forces himself to smirk. “What an excellent way to spark my curiosity,” he murmurs. “I'm not afraid of you, you know.” 

He draws in a sharp breath at the look in Lord Hale's eyes. “...Alright, perhaps I'm a little afraid of you. It does not mean I shall let you dictate my opinion.” 

Derek smiles then, sudden and blinding, and Stiles feels like he is alone with a predator, like he is being hunted.

“We'll see.”

*

“Lord Hale is a fine caricature of a gentleman, I suppose, but have any deigned to actually get to know him and uncover any sort of genuine good nature underneath? I think too many people prefer to pretend he is the ideal, too distracted by fine looks and a respected title, than they are truly interested in considering the merit of the man himself.”

Lord Hale glares at him and Stiles grins. They are alone in the library of a mutual friend, abandoned momentarily while said friend tends to some business Stiles cannot bring himself to care remembering.

“That is what I was planning on leading with in the next conversation where you come up and believe me, I won't have to wait long. You are a favored topic among far too many.”

Lord Hale does not reply for a moment, taking a sip from his glass thoughtfully before setting it down. 

Stiles is up against the wall again in the next moment and he thinks giddily on how expected this is, anticipation making his breath short.

“Interesting,” is all Derek says and Stiles frowns in confusion. Derek smiles, shifting his hold and stepping in closer, so that Stiles in entirely trapped against the unrelenting surface of the wall behind him and the hard length of Derek's body.

“This gives you pleasure, doesn't it,” Derek says and it isn't a question, isn't phrased like one at all and yet Stiles suspects he still wants an answer. 

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.” He tries very hard to keep his tone light, careless even. He succeeds in sounding breathless instead.

Derek laughs humorlessly, his hold tightening, pressing himself indecently closer and Stiles tries to recoil, cannot because of the wall, and despairs. 

“Do not think that when you watch me – when you stare across rooms full of people at me like I am the most interesting thing in the room – do not think I do not notice it, every time. You watch me often, _Stiles._ I wonder what that says about you.”

Stiles gapes, frozen by the accusation before something very important occurs to him.

“Do not think I haven't noticed you watching me, as well, Lord Hale. I will call you out on that hypocrisy if you are going to accuse me of such unforgivable vulgarity, as I think you are doing.”

Lord Hale smiles thinly, his gaze dropping shamelessly to Stiles' mouth.

“I thought I told you to call me Derek, Mister Stilinski.”

*

It _is_ vulgar, he thinks, as he strokes his erection, imagining Derek warm and hard beside him, batting his hand away to take control himself and he knows Derek's grip would be tight, his strokes methodical and unrelenting.

It's vulgar and wrong and a damnable sin to be laying here, clutching his pillow and muffling desperate sounds against it as he grinds himself into the flesh of his own palm, thinking of Derek, the heat and strength of him, the press of his hands and the power of his body.

He knows he should bury the thoughts, repress and avoid and move on with his life, making sure it contains as little of Lord Derek Hale as possible.

He doesn't.

*

Stiles notices Derek watching him more often. It feels less like a game now, more like Stiles is being hunted, sized up and debated how best to be brought down. 

It makes him feel anxious, nervous.

Excited. 

“I wonder how he stands it, I know I would never have the patience to deal with fawning fools and simpering idiots,” Stiles muses quietly and doesn't notice Lady Erica of Reyes and Lord Isaac Lahey gaping at him until he receives no reply for his idle comment. He turns away from watching the modest crowd gather around Lord Hale and looks at them blankly.

“...Is something wrong?”

“I think that is the first vaguely kind thing you've voiced about Lord Hale since you first laid eyes on him. When did you start sympathizing for Lord Hale's plight of unwanted popularity?” Lady Erica asks bluntly. She was a forthright young woman, Stiles likes her. 

However, the question makes him shift uncomfortably and turn his back on Derek's many admirers. 

“It was merely an observation, am I not allowed to speak as I see it?”

Isaac raises one brow and Stiles really hates how the man pulls off haughty condescension so effortlessly, while still remaining so perfectly genuine. “Speak it, yes, no one would deny your ability to voice your opinion, none have the energy to argue such a case, but _feel_ it, that's another matter. Not a month ago you were declaring how Lord Hale likely preened privately under the attention. I believe you accused him of some form of vampirism, suggested it was how he retained his good looks, sucking in the energy of empty flattery.”

He feels himself being watched and deliberately does not turn around and seek out Derek's eyes.

He can feel his heart, beating too hard in his chest.

Stiles feels unsettled, set adrift, and isn't entirely sure it is even possible to make it back to shore.

*

“If you have finally grown tired of this strange little feud you have going on with him than put it aside and try to make amends. I know you feel as if you didn't have the most positive of first impressions but there is a reason some say they can be misleading. Try again, get to know him. He has his faults, everyone does, but he is surprisingly conscientious and has a dry wit I think you would appreciate.”

Scott speaks plainly as he draws his attention away from where it had been entirely focused on Lady Allison d'Argent, leveling him with a serious look.

“And please, for the love of God, stop talking about him all the time. I'm frankly sick of the topic.” 

Stiles scowls, reminding himself that Scott McCall is his best friend. An unlikely friendship, given that Scott is the son of a well-respected if not well-liked Earl. They'd grown up together in the country, Scott living with his mother for reasons of poor health while the Earl, no secret to anyone, spent most of his time in the city, carrying on in any which way he wished. 

Stiles had been the closest in age and class, and Scott had never been one to develop big headed notions that would in any way sully their friendship.

“I shall remember you told me that next time you are waxing poetic about her ladyship over there,” he retorts, bitterness making his tongue careless. Scott levels him with an amused look. 

“Are you likening my adoration of Lady Allison with your shifting feelings for Lord Hale?”

Stiles doesn't say anything, stares at his best friend, brother in everything but blood, with a look of sudden terrified helplessness. Scott makes no reply but his expression softens and he rests a comforting hand upon his shoulder before he turns at the sound of a lady's familiar musical laugh and is once again gone from the conversation.

Stiles is grateful for the small measure of privacy it affords him. 

*

“I do not see you as often,” Derek comments, his tone sedate, the observation harmless. Stiles watches him silently, waiting.

“You have been avoiding social occasions as of late; is it because of me?”

Stiles laughs, raising his brows. “Because of you? Someone has a high opinion of himself, doesn't he?” He expects Derek's expression to harden, his voice to grow harsh. Instead he leans back, eyes raking over Stiles slowly, head to toe. 

“That is not an answer, and for what it is worth I am pleased you chose to attend tonight,” he says quietly and Stiles stops laughing, swallowing past a swell of sudden panic before shaking his head. “I am not avoiding you,” he lies and Derek's lips twitch, as if he is able to see right through him. It makes Stiles angry. It also thrills him in a way that he is wary of. 

“Rumor has it you will be engaged very soon; some lovely lady finally catch your fickle eye?” Stiles says abruptly. Derek shakes his head, gaze intense. 

“Conjecture and wishful thinking by people with no place in my life,” he murmurs, though he pauses and licks his lips, thinking. “Though you are right in part, someone _has_ caught my eye. Unfortunately, it it likely that nothing will come of it.” 

Stiles feels his heart seize and he draws in a slow breath. “Oh yes? And what is dooming your romance before it even begins, pray tell? Her family not rich enough? Does she see right through you and find herself unaffected by your charm?”

Derek's laugh is more a short huff of air than anything else and he shakes his head, grimly amused. “Nothing like that. It's far more complicated. Our romance would be a difficult one as the object of my affections has a difficult personality and the union itself...” He paused, considering his words.

“Many would disapprove, to such a degree that I fear it would have to remain a secret, should anything actually come of it.”

Stiles feels as if he cannot breathe and he stares at Derek avidly, his entire focus on this man whom he had disliked so much at first. “You sound as if the possibility does not bother you,” he says, forcing his tone into a strained lightness.

Derek hums on a sound of agreement. 

“I lost many things I held dear to me when I was younger. I am uninterested in losing anything more and indifferent to the opinions of people I don't give a fuck about.”

Stiles shivers, staring at Derek's mouth. His eyes flicker up to Derek's and he wets his lips. “So what? Shall you be asking this person to give up everything to live in secret and sin with you?”

“No, I believe I have already said enough. I am letting him make that final step. I am interested in seeing whether he is the coward I originally took him for or if there is some mettle yet unseen that lies within him.”

Lord Hale takes his leave a moment after, excusing himself from their conversation, the room, and as he later finds out, the party that _he_ is hosting, entirely. His two sisters, willful and graceful ladies that they are, take over the task of running the event with nary a blink of surprise. 

They do it so flawlessly that few even notice Lord Hale's exit.

For Stiles, it is all he can think about. 

*

“You have some nerve!” he snarls as he stabs his finger at Derek furiously. 

Derek smiles. “Not such a coward after all then,” he muses thoughtfully, and there is pleasure in his tone. Stiles stands in Lord Hale's private quarters, having slipped from the party once he was able to adequately gather the nerve and search the labyrinthine hallways until he'd finally found the master bedroom. Derek has already changed, his hair and face is freshly damp and he is stripped of his finery, standing before Stiles now in nothing more than a loose shirt and breeches. 

Stiles refuses to dwell on the sight. “You cannot—you cannot say things like that, you cannot admit such things, bait me and then leave, like this decision is entirely in my hands.”

Derek's eyes narrow and he straightens, taking a slow step towards him. “Why not? You have made my life difficult ever since I met you, had countless negative things to say about me, mocked and belittled my name behind my back; tell me why I cannot leave this one difficult thing in your hands? I think you deserve it.” He breaths out a harsh exasperated breath. "I think _I_ deserve it." 

“Because I don't know what it means!” Stiles cries, spreading his arms, palms up in supplication. “I've never felt this way—I've never wanted anything like this and I know it's _wrong_ , Derek. I know it's wrong but I _want_ things and I don't know how—I don't— ”

He is pushed up against the wall in the next breath and he thinks _yes, this is familiar, this is good,_ but instead of threats Derek's mouth is over his, hot and wet and punishing, kissing him like he'll drown without it, kissing him until Stiles is aching, hands tangled in his hair and clawing at his shoulders. This is better than the furtive fantasies, the tight clutch of his own hand and the cold space beside him in his bed.

This is better. This is what he needs. This is all he's ever wanted.

They are on the bed, Derek ripping at the ties of Stiles' clothes, his own hands fumbling to palm Derek roughly through his breeches, shuddering at the full bodied moan it gets him.

They are naked, rocking against one another, hard and anxious for any touch; Derek sucks in a gasp when Stiles mouths at his neck, sucking a bruise at the hollow of his throat, the mark dark against his skin like a brand.

They are desperate, Stiles smothering sounds against the pillow and against Derek's hand, body writhing underneath him like a wanton creature, wholly unrecognizable to himself and greedy for more as Derek whispers filthy words of encouragement into his ear.

They come with each others names on their lips. 

It feels like a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta-read and I am no expert in Regency period titles, clothing, or linguistics, so apologies for any mistakes, all mistakes are my own. Hopefully nothing was too glaring to ruin the mood of the story. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
